


Autumn

by sensitivebore



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 06:05:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sensitivebore/pseuds/sensitivebore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carson and Hughes, and autumn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Autumn

She finds him at the front of the house, aimlessly pacing the driveway in slow circles, looking at nothing. The Lord and Lady are due back shortly, but it's far too early to be in formation to greet them. Elsie squints and she frowns, her brow creases. It's probably just the distance, but — well, there's no other word for it, really.

He looks sad.

She goes to him, puts a smile on her face, hugs herself for warmth in the chilly fall air.

"Mr. Carson, it's a bit early to be out here in the nip and chill."

Carson looks up, gives her a preoccupied small smile. His hands are clasped loosely behind his back and he surveys the lawns again, the trees, nods towards them. The foliage is changing into the muted earth tones of fall, all russets and browns, and she thinks again that he is sad, melancholy, and something inside her stirs painfully, something inside of her reaches desperately with grabbing hands.

"Just admiring the leaves, Mrs. Hughes. It's autumn again already; it seems like there was hardly any summer this year."

She's not imagining it; his voice is reflective, bittersweet; the beautiful baritone is shaded with rain. Elsie looks at the leaves.

"Do you like autumn, Mr. Carson?" She herself can take it or leave it; it's winter she hates, winter that she has to sometimes struggle to get through with its endless darkness and damp and cold.

"No."

Elsie is startled a bit at the flat, pointed answer to her somewhat vague question, and looks at him sharply. He's not his usual self, not today. Carson notices her inquiring glance and continues, shrugging.

"Autumn is — well. I've never found the love of it that the poets speak of. The autumn days, autumn years." He swallows a bit and she thinks his throat tightens, she can't be sure. "Autumn love." Carson shrugs again, makes a pretty gesture with his hand like a bird taking flight. "It just seems like a season of endless dying to me. But I mustn't get maudlin." He forces a smile. "Do you like it, Mrs. Hughes?"

Elsie watches him carefully, answers slowly. "I don't know, now that you ask. I never thought much about it one way or another. I suppose in some ways — it's harvest time on farms, so that was always lovely. But it was also the time to get ready for winter, to snug up for the cold." His words stick in her mind, play over and over. _Autumn love._

"Do you — hope for those things? Golden autumn years?" She tries to add it lightly, tack it on with nonchalance as she gazes at nothing in the distance. "And love?"

They don't talk like this, she and him. The word love has never been bandied about, not really even in reference to others. They talk about  _work, duty, responsibility, propriety, rules, stations_. All dusty, colorless words that leave a film of weary weight on their shoulders. All starch and stiffness, all distance and posture.

He doesn't answer for a long moment.

She clears her throat, adjusts the sleeve around her wrist, waits in the painful silence.

"I suppose we all hope to be loved. In some way or another."

He doesn't look at her.

She nods. Presses her lips together. Folds her hands at her waist.

"I suppose so, Mr. Carson."

"It would be quite a sad life if — well, if we die having never been loved." His voice is quiet, unsure, still with that clouded note of sadness.

She doesn't think before she speaks, it's often been her downfall, and here she is again, following that same treacherous path.

"You're in no danger of that."

Her face flushes scarlet, she looks down at her hands; the pain of the blush is unbearable, she wants to writhe with it, to sink into the ground.

They are not like that. They do not say these things.

Elsie casts about, tries to think of something to move the conversation forward, tries to think of some way to reframe her words, but he has stepped behind her now and his hands are resting lightly on her shoulders and all of the embarrassment and regret and feeling of foolishness drains away and is replaced by some new thing when he rests his cheek lightly on her hair and speaks, speaks with that same new thing that is budding inside of her wrapping around his voice and making it golden again.

"Perhaps I've been too hasty to judge. Autumn may be lovely after all."


End file.
